


The More You Want

by wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff



Series: Fire and Water [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Divorced Lestrade, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Melodrama, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mystrade, or as I like to call them Lecroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-09 02:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15257604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff/pseuds/wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff
Summary: Mycroft Holmes didn't have low points.  At least that is what he pretended.  Sherlock on the other hand... Sherlock had many low points, and Mycroft couldn't help but notice that one particular man always seemed to be there to pull him out of trouble just in the nick of time...





	1. The Low Point

_“The more you want, the more you stand to lose.”_

_-Aesop_

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was missing.  Again.  Mycroft’s people were out searching all his favorite hiding places already, of course, as well as some likely new locations.  He had been gone for 24 hours already, and it was all bloody Gregory Lestrade’s fault.  The Sergeant’s sheer stubbornness had caused everything.  Mycroft had even gone to the trouble of threatening him to let Sherlock work.  He had been absolutely certain that Lestrade would heed his warning message, but no, he was far too busy following the rules to help Sherlock. 

Mycroft flipped his computer monitor to yet another CCTV channel, worry making his stomach clench.  Static from a small speaker on his desk buzzed almost inaudibly before a young woman’s voice came through. 

“Sir, we’ve located your brother.  Vauxhall, camera 57A.  Police are already on the scene and an ambulance has been called.  It appears he’s overdosed.  They’ll take him to St. Bart’s.  I’ll arrange transportation.”

“Thank you, Anthea.”  Mycroft replied into the speaker, already flipping to the correct camera feed on his computer.

A police officer in plain clothes was crouched over a lifeless-looking Sherlock.  Strangely, Sherlock seemed to be wrapped in the man’s coat.  It was an odd gesture from the officer.  Hypothermia could kill as quickly as an overdose, but it was raining so hard, the coat was not likely to do much.

Mycroft considered for a moment.  It had to be Lestrade.  Most of New Scotland Yard hated Sherlock.  Who else would have made such a sentimental gesture, even subconsciously? 

Mycroft’s heart nearly stopped when Lestrade suddenly ripped the coat from Sherlock and started CPR.  Sherlock had overdosed before on more than one occasion, but never so badly as to stop his heart.  This was more serious than Mycroft has surmised.

He watched as Lestrade held on desperately to Sherlock’s life.  Mycroft stood by his desk helplessly.  Anthea would call him when the car was ready, and there was no point in arriving at the hospital ahead of Sherlock.  It would likely take a while for him to be stabilized enough for visitors anyway.

Miniaturized by the computer screen, paramedics arrived and bundled Sherlock into the ambulance.  They stopped CPR before they shut the doors, which might have been an indication of Sherlock’s death, but Mycroft also saw them pushing an IV into his arm.  That meant Sherlock’s heart was beating again.

A sigh escaped Mycroft and he collapsed back into his chair.  Static from the speaker murmured again.  The car was ready, but Mycroft was still watching the screen.  Lestrade had collapsed into a heap of sobs on the kerb.  Interesting.  Perhaps the man could yet be useful. 

Mycroft leaned into the speaker.  “Anthea, tell the driver to take me to Vauxhall, not Bart’s.  And call the Yard.  Let them know I’m on my way and that I need to speaker to Sergeant Lestrade.”

“Of course, sir.”  Anthea said, not in the least fazed that he had interrupted her.

Mycroft made his way out of his office and down the elevator to the basement garage.  A sleek, black car was already waiting for him.  He slid into the back seat, and it started moving without further instruction.  Though the windows were dark, Mycroft knew they had exited the building when the torrent of rain started beating a rhythm on the roof.

While he rode, Mycroft pondered the Sherlock situation.  However much it pained him, Mycroft’s little brother was beyond his help.  Sherlock rarely overdosed.  It was an intentional action each time, driven by Sherlock’s own feral emotions.  Mycroft had always seen Sherlock’s drug problem as a plea for attention, but this was different somehow. 

Drug dosages were imprecise.  Each time Sherlock’s took cocaine, he became more tolerant.  The next time, more was needed to reproduce the high.  But Sherlock knew how to counter such a buildup of tolerance when he wanted to.  It simply took time and a modicum of patience.  Only when his emotions were at their most turbulent, did Sherlock give in to the temptation to up the dose, but never to the point that he might actually die. 

No.  Sherlock had meant to die tonight.  And Lestrade had saved him.

That was better than luck.  Mycroft needed an ally.  Someone who could help him fight against Sherlock’s wilder impulses.  Lestrade seemed ready-made for the job.  If only Mycroft could convince him to take it.

The car pulled up to the scene of Sherlock’s near-death, and after a brief pause, the door swung open to admit a soaking Sergeant Lestrade.  Before Mycroft even had time to take in much more than just that he was wet, Lestrade cut in.

“You?”  Frustration and anger was clear in Lestrade’s voice.

“I see your manners are unchanged from when last we spoke, Sergeant.”  Mycroft replied peevishly.

Lestrade’s mouth fell open.  “Says the mysterious stranger who’s broken into my home twice.  At least twice and I don’t even know your name!” 

Mycroft could hardly deny such a charge.  After all, he had certainly intended for the Sergeant to know about the break-ins.  He’d even waited for him to return home the first time.  Instead of replying and incriminating himself further, Mycroft looked at the man in front of him.

Lestrade look tired.  Truly exhausted.  Perhaps Mycroft had expected too much of him.  After all, if Mycroft himself – one of the smartest and most powerful men in the world – couldn’t look after Sherlock, how could a simple Police Sergeant?

“It does seem that I have failed to introduce myself properly.”  Mycroft said.  “I do like to investigate people thoroughly before letting them know much about me.  I’m quite certain you understand, being a member of the law enforcement yourself.” 

Mycroft fell silent, but Lestrade’s angry glare refused to fade, and so after a few silently tense seconds, he continued while offering a hand to shake.  “You may call me Mycroft.”

At that pronouncement, Lestrade’s glare did fade, to be replaced by a jeer.  “Mycroft?  Is that even your real name?  Who the hell would name their kid My...”  Lestrade trailed off, with a look of dawning realization.  “No.  No, wait.  The same people who named a kid ‘Sherlock.’”  Greg’s dropped his chin to his chest.  “Jesus Christ, you’re his brother.”

Mycroft was surprised.  It was a good deduction for a non-Holmes, but Mycroft had assumed that Lestrade already knew who he was.  Had Lestrade not mentioned their encounters to Sherlock?  Surely Sherlock would have told the man who he was, even if he hadn’t deigned to mention his name.

Mycroft’s curiosity was interrupted by a growl from Lestrade.  “What do you want?” 

“To help.”  Mycroft answered earnestly.  He opened his mouth to continue, but Lestrade cut him off.

“To help?  To help?!  How exactly are you helping?  By abandoning your brother to drug addiction and homelessness?  By spying on him and me?  By trying to coerce him into a job he doesn’t want?  What exactly are you doing to help?”

Mycroft’s fumed.  “Everything I can.”  He paused, giving his best scowl.  “My brother is beyond control or perhaps you hadn’t noticed, Sergeant.  He won’t accept my help.  He won’t come live with me.  I can’t give him money without him spending it on cocaine.  I certainly can’t get him into rehab.  All I can do is try to control the damage, and clearly I am failing at even that.  What would you have me do?”

“You can’t control him because he doesn’t need a keeper.  He just needs someone to try to understand him.  You’re his family!”  Lestrade yelled.

Mycroft could barely contain his anger.  What a hypocrite!  Lestrade’s family was hardly in good shape.

“And how well does your family understand you, Sergeant?  How well do you get along with them?” 

Lestrade grumbled.  “That’s a bad example.”

Mycroft had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

“It’s a statistically average example.  Almost no one gets along with their family.  People love their family, certainly, but they don’t get along.  Family is just a coincidence of genetics and the questionable decisions that precede marriage, not a guarantee of compatibility.”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his forehead.  “What do you want?”  He asked again.

“I want you to help me help Sherlock.  He’s…”  Mycroft paused.  “Difficult to keep track of, and I cannot devote all my time to the task.  I need someone to provide information on him, and you are ideally placed.  As I offered previously, I would be willing to facilitate any legal paperwork necessary to allow him to recommence working with you.  This would give you the most access to him, and I believe it to be a mutually beneficial situation.  He is…”  Mycroft hesitated again, looking for the best words.  “Better when he’s on a case with you.”

Lestrade lifted his head and caught Mycroft’s eye.  Mycroft silently hoped that Lestrade would change his mind, but what else could he say to convince the man?

 “I can’t.”  Greg said with honest conviction. 

“I don’t think you understand.”  Mycroft explained.  “This gives everyone what they want.  I will be able to keep an eye on Sherlock, your cases will get solved, and Sherlock will have work to occupy his mind.  What’s to lose?” 

“I can’t.”  Greg repeated, rushing to explain.  “Sherlock will never work for me if he thinks I’m passing information to you, and you know it.  And even if he were willing to do it, what kind of friend would I be to him if I agreed to it?”

‘Friend’ had never been a word that Mycroft had heard associated with his brother.  A sudden tenderness for the Sergeant caught him off guard momentarily.  But even so, Lestrade was right.  Mycroft did know that his proposal would never work.  Still, he had to try.

“Sergeant Lestrade, I admire your loyalty.”  He took a deep breath and let it out before continuing.  “However, Sherlock does not have a place in this world.  He doesn’t ‘fit in’ anywhere.  I can’t change him; no one can.  The only hope I have is to change the world to make a place for him.  It’s the only reason I ever went into government work in the first place.  Now you tell me that my plan cannot possibly work.  And you are right, by the way.  It’s a problem I foresaw, but willfully ignored since I had no solution for it.  I had hoped that I would eventually find a way, but given that it will not work, to what hope should I cling?  Or should I despair that my little brother is lost?”

Lestrade was staring at Mycroft with the most peculiar expression on his face.  For all Mycroft’s observation skills, he could not successfully place whatever emotion or emotions were displayed there.  Somehow, the look comforted him though.

“You have to trust me.”  Greg said.  “I know trust isn’t really your thing, but Sherlock won’t go along with anything that he suspects you are behind.  I can help him, but you have to trust me.”

Mycroft studied Greg, appraising him carefully.  Mycroft had never truly trusted anyone before, but it seemed he had no choice in this case.  The car stopped, and Mycroft nodded.  “Do what you have to do.”

Lestrade pushed open the door, and climbed onto the pavement outside St. Bart’s.  Mycroft watched through the dark window as he disappeared into the hospital. 

Mycroft glanced down to see Lestrade’s mobile lying on the seat of the car as they pulled into traffic.  He picked it up gently.  It could be returned to Lestrade easily.  He would have someone ensure it was plugged in on Lestrade’s bedside table before the man himself even returned home.  Judging from the bags under Lestrade’s eyes, he would be too tired to even notice it was ever missing. 

He tucked it into his suitcoat pocket, but pulled it out a moment later.  Guessing Lestrade’s password (JustitiaOmnibus), he quickly entered his number into Lestrade’s contact list.  Either Lestrade would never notice, or he would need it one day. 

Mycroft directed the driver to take him home.  Once there, he relinquished the phone to one of his most trusted people for its safe return and retired to bed for a few hours.  He would need the sleep to deal with Sherlock in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft slept exactly 3 hours before rising to return to the hospital.  After receiving assurances from Sherlock’s doctors that he would make a full recovery, he headed to Sherlock’s room.  Sherlock had his eyes open when Mycroft rounded the corner, but promptly snapped them shut and pretended to be asleep.

“Mummy will be quite upset when she hears of this.”  Mycroft started.

Sherlock steadfastly continued to feign sleep.

“Don’t be so petty, Sherlock.  I know you’re awake.”

Sherlock’s eyes popped open, and his face contorted into a pouty scowl.  “Why are you here?  I’m calling the nurse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock.  I’m not here to torment you.  Don’t you think I have better things to do?  They called me.  I’m only here because I have to be.”

Sherlock continued to glare, and Mycroft sighed.  “Very well.  I’ll go.”

Sherlock seemed appeased, at least momentarily.

Mycroft put on his best impression of a stern parent.  “When you sneak out of here, please do something productive with your time.”  He turned to leave, but turned back at the door.

Sherlock had already sunk further under the covers, but Mycroft was sure he was still listening.  “And Sherlock… don’t do it again.”


	2. A Team of Two or Three

Mycroft didn’t expect to hear from Gregory Lestrade again.  In fact, he fully expected to have to threaten the man again to get Sherlock back to work.  And he hadn’t had the time since Sherlock’s overdose to do so.  Somehow, the Mayor of London had gotten hold of his office phone number.  The man had complained so much about the state of local politics that Mycroft had had to have the number changed.  Not the worst thing that could happen, but a hassle nonetheless.

Mycroft had been heartily surprised, therefore to receive a call from the chief of the labs at Bart’s.  It seemed Sherlock was finally putting his chemistry degree to good use.  Mycroft couldn’t help but wonder whose idea that had been.  And how long it would last.  But Mycroft was never one to create a problem where none yet existed.

With Sherlock entertained for now and the Mayor fiasco behind him, Mycroft turned his attention back to his prolific workload.  The country wouldn’t run itself, after all.

He had finally made a small dent in his pile of paperwork when Anthea buzzed him again.  “Boss, I’ve got someone out here who needs to see you.”

Anthea was an excellent assistant; she wouldn’t call for him for something minor.  Still, he was annoyed.  “This best be important.  I don’t have time to waste on another local official’s petty complaints.”

Anthea sounded certain in her response.  “Trust me.  You want to see this one.”

A few seconds later, Mycroft’s door swung open and in walked none other than an exasperated looking Gregory Lestrade.

“Sergeant, Lestrade.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”  Said Mycroft, trying to reign in his surprise.

“Mycroft?  Fuck.  I’m going in circles.”  Greg collapsed haphazardly into the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk, uninvited, but Mycroft somehow couldn’t find it in him to object.

Mycroft was a touch amused by Lestrade’s frustration, but also felt something he couldn’t quite place.  Concern?  Sympathy?  No matter.  He rose and circled to the front of his desk instinctually.

Once there, however, he didn’t know what to do.  He vacillated for a second before leaning back on the desk hoping that his attempt at casualness was not too obvious.  “You’re here about getting Sherlock a contract with the Yard.”

Greg’s head rose, and he met Mycroft’s eyes with mouth hanging open somewhat dumbly.  “Yes.  Of course you already know why I’m here.  No one at the Yard can help me.  I’ve been on a wild goose chase all afternoon.”

“I could get the contract fairly easily.”  Mycroft said.

“Sherlock won’t accept your help.”  Greg reminded him.

“Perhaps Sherlock needn’t know that I’m helping.  He’ll certainly be able to deduce that you’ve been working on this problem today, and that you had to talk to several people, but your connections at the Yard are not insignificant.  I don’t think he’ll necessarily conclude that you ever came to see me.”

“Do you really have that kind of power at the Yard?  Enough to overrule their policy?”  Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled ruefully.  “Working closely with the Yard is essential to my job.  I’ve built up a certain amount of influence there over the years.  If you don’t object, then you may consider it done.”

Greg’s brow furrowed, and Mycroft could almost see him thinking it over.  “Alright.  It’s worth a shot.”

Mycroft was relieved.  “I’ll have the contract sent to you in a non-attributable fashion within a week.”

Lestrade sunk further into the chair, clearly relieved.  Perhaps he too felt that he needed an ally in this.  Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at the man. 

After a few seconds, Lestrade rose and faced Mycroft somewhat awkwardly.  With Mycroft in front of the desk, they were just a bit too close together, but moving away seemed somehow rude. 

Lestrade cleared his throat and finally proffered a hand.  Shaking as if they were making some sort of pact, Mycroft showed Lestrade to the door.  Lestrade left to return to his job, and Mycroft turned back to his stack of work, feeling somehow emptier than he had before Lestrade’s impromptu visit.

Nevertheless, Mycroft had work to do.  In addition to his already prodigious pile, he now needed to push a new policy through Scotland Yard, which – whatever he pretended to Lestrade – was not going to be terribly simple.

Mycroft called in no fewer than three favours over the next few days.  That sort of equity would take some time to recoup.  Regardless, he got the contract for Sherlock. 

And he even managed to get mostly caught up on his regular work, but new developments requiring his attention rolled in daily – and often overnight, so Mycroft found himself up before dawn as usual, sitting behind his desk.  After sending Sherlock’s contract directly to the Superintendent of New Scotland Yard, Mycroft perused his daily reports.   One in particular caught his eye.  It seemed the criminal underworld of London was buzzing.

Rumours were floating through the streets.  Someone new had arrived to wreak chaos, and the highest echelons of the government were the targets: the Prime Minister, even the Queen.  Somehow, Mycroft doubted the Yard would be up to this challenge alone.  He needed to rally the troops, and quickly.

He reached for the phone to make the appropriate calls, but before he picked up the receiver, another phone rang – his mobile.  He pulled the phone from the inside of his coat and hesitated one more ring if only because of the name on the caller ID.  What business could Lestrade have with him so early in the morning?  Something to do with Sherlock, no doubt.  Best to answer – London’s crime scenes could wait a few hours, surely. 

“Is something the matter, Sergeant?”

“Do you know where Sherlock is?”  Lestrade’s voice demanded. 

Mycroft was momentarily stunned.  It had been many years since anyone had dared speak to him so rudely – other than Sherlock, of course.  Not to mention, Mycroft had not expected the anger in Lestrade’s voice.  Or was that panic?

 “I thought he was with you.”  Mycroft replied, trying to keep his own rising fear from his voice.

“No.  He hasn’t been home in four days, as far as I can tell, and he didn’t say anything to me.  I thought you monitored his movements with CCTV.”  Greg still sounded accusatory, but his tone was tinged with hope that Mycroft might have more information.

Mycroft’s people usually informed him if Sherlock was spotted up to anything.  Mycroft felt his face flush.  He should have known that Sherlock was missing.  Lestrade should have told him sooner.  Or was his own anger also misplaced?  Lestrade genuinely hadn’t known.  Mycroft was certain Sherlock came and went as he pleased, and Mycroft himself had not noticed anything amiss.  Perhaps his feelings were just his own embarrassment and worry.

“Sherlock is very good at not being seen unless he wants to be.”  Mycroft replied.  “If he’s been gone several days, we need to find him immediately.  I’ll pick you up in half an hour.  Be ready.”

Mycroft hung up and immediately regretted it.  Cutting the conversation short would do nothing to calm frayed nerves.  He pushed the button on the speaker on his desk, as if to make up for it.

“Anthea, I need the car immediately.  And two teas to go.”

Half an hour later, Mycroft arrived at Lestrade’s residence and opened the car door to a shivery-looking Lestrade on the kerb.   As he slid into the car, Mycroft pushed the still-steaming tea into his hands.

“Now Sherlock has several usual haunts, his favorite being Vauxhall, but I’ve already got people there.”  Mycroft said.

Lestrade was looking at him in a dazed and confused way, like he hadn’t registered a word.

 “What?  Sorry, I…”  Greg rambled.

Mycroft squinted at him.  The bags under his eyes were easily visible, and he seemed somehow paler than usual.  “You didn’t sleep last night.  You’ve been worried for hours.  Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

Mycroft couldn’t make sense of it.  If Lestrade had noticed last night that Sherlock was missing, why not call immediately.  The two of them had made a pact, after all, to look after the man.  But then it dawned on Lestrade that Greg simply hadn’t considered the possibility.  Mycroft had never crossed Lestrade’s mind.  Greg started to shrug, but Mycroft brushed it aside and plowed on, trying to cover his inexplicable disappointment.

“Ah… you didn’t think of me as a resource.”  Mycroft paused, but Lestrade didn’t speak, so he continued.  “Anyway, as I was saying, Sherlock has several places to hole up in case of relapse, but I’ve already got people headed to all of them.  The problem is that Sherlock rarely uses the same place twice.  It’s a tactic designed to delay my finding him.  I have more people checking CCTV and mobile photo uploads, but it would take extreme luck to find him that way.”

“Where are we going?”  Lestrade suddenly interjected.

“Scotland Yard.  We need resources.”

* * *

 

The following twenty-four hours were damnably long.  Neither Lestrade nor Mycroft had taken even a moment’s rest, and tempers were growing shorter.  To make matters worse, there had been no sign of Sherlock.

“How you managed to lose my brother from a shared two-bedroom flat, is beyond me.”  Mycroft snarled.

“You’re saying you’ve never lost track of him?  He isn’t exactly easy to pin down!  Your entire family couldn’t keep him off of drugs or perhaps you’d forgotten!”  Greg snapped.

Mycroft fumed and glared.  What did Gregory Lestrade know?  He was nothing but a lowly Sergeant at an overrated police department.  Mycroft was almost about to tell him so, but then thought better of it.  Lestrade was only trying to help after all.  Mycroft lowered his head in acquiescence.  “We can’t continue.  We won’t help Sherlock like this.”

Gregory blushed at Mycroft’s statement, perhaps realizing how childish the argument was.  “Yeah, I…”  But the beeping of a mobile interrupted him.  With a look of curiosity on his face, Greg pulled the device out of the back pocket of his jeans and looked down with a facial expression of utter surprise.

After a moment, the phone beeped again in Lestrade’s hand, and Mycroft, unable to contain himself any longer, said, “What is it?” 

Much to Mycroft’s annoyance, Lestrade started typing furiously rather than answer.  It was a slow process; Lestrade’s hands were shaking.  It could only be Sherlock then.  Gregory would be attempting to ascertain his exact location.

Mycroft felt a sudden pull toward the man.  He was oddly vulnerable where Sherlock was concerned, as evidenced by the trembling.  And he was even more oddly willing to show that vulnerability to Mycroft.  It had been a very long time indeed since someone had been willing to display such defenselessness around Mycroft.  If indeed anyone had ever been willing at all.   Seeing Gregory’s shaking hands created a strange desire in Mycroft to comfort the man.

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft during the pause between texts.  “He’s texting me for cases.  I don’t know whether to be relieved or angry.”

Mycroft sighed.  He understood that sentiment all too well.  “That is a common conundrum with Sherlock.”  He assured Gregory.

The phone beeped one last time, and the screen lit up Lestrade’s face.

 “He’s in Cuba.”  Lestrade said, meeting Mycroft’s eyes before looking back down at his shaking hands.  “Mycroft, I… I can’t do this.  I can’t be Sherlock’s keeper.  At least not his only one.  I want to help him, I just…  I’m not cut out for it.”

Mycroft felt almost as though he was watching himself, rather than driving his own movements, as he reached out and placed his hands on Gregory’s shoulders.

“I know.”  Mycroft said sincerely.  “I can’t do it either.”

“You know, he mentioned finding a roommate.”  Gregory said.  Mycroft felt his eyebrows raise in surprise.  Who would ever live with Sherlock voluntarily…  But then again…  That could be just the solution they needed.

“Maybe with one more, the three of us could handle him?”  Gregory’s eyes widened in a fairly accurate impression of a hopeful puppy.  Mycroft couldn’t help but lean just a bit closer. 

His voice dropped to just barely above a whisper, as though he had some secret of great importance to share. “Then we shall have to endeavor to find a suitable person.” 

Greg leaned in, probably to hear, and Mycroft leaned in and with a wild abandon he was quite unused to… kissed him.

Mycroft briefly felt the desire to panic.  Had he completely lost his mind?  But then Greg pressed in, wrapping his arms around Mycroft, and pushed further into the kiss.  Just as Mycroft began to relax, Greg’s phone rang. 

Lestrade jerked back from the kiss like a teenager caught by his parents, and Mycroft was left alone with his arms still hanging in the air.  Greg jerked the phone back out, held it up to his ear, and looked immediately surprised.

“I’m already in.”  Lestrade replied to whoever was on the other line.  “Just wake me up when you get here; I need a quick nap.”

Greg hung up and looked up awkwardly.  “I, umm…”

“Need to work.”  Mycroft finished for him, feeling his face flush.  He had not felt so embarrassed, since he had been bullied in grade school.  “Of course, I understand.  Thank you for your help locating Sherlock, and do please tell him to call me when he gets a chance.”

“Right, yeah.  I’ll do that.”  Lestrade was saying, but Mycroft had already turned to flee.


End file.
